


To Make Much Of Time

by bogged



Category: Actor RPF, Harry Potter RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-25
Updated: 2009-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogged/pseuds/bogged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly this is a character piece about a horny nineteen-year-old, set during Dan's New York run of Equus. The male Other is left purposefully ambiguous, so fill him in as whomever your heart contents him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make Much Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know or own anyone discussed herein, as you could probably have figured out on your own, so please do not throw the book at me for defamation of character. Thank you!

This was going to be awkward.

But then again, Daniel Radcliffe thought as he gave the hotel doorman a passing nod, since when has asking someone out not been awkward? The act of picking one individual out of all the other individuals in the entirety of Earth and then asking them to place themselves at the mercy of a whole new world of weaknesses—all so that maybe someone can get his dick wet at the end of the night, yeah, that's not awkward at all.

All right, then. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe this wouldn't be like every other waking moment of his life. Maybe he would pull his words from some unfettered garden of cool and actually impress someone for once, he thought, trying to console himself and gain a bit of confidence. That particular thought got him to thinking of some recent social experiences, however, and he once again became unsure of his status as a real person. What the fucking fuck, he cursed to himself as he approached the lift. He pressed the up button and glanced at a scrap of paper in his right hand onto which he had scrawled _804_, a room number. Dan squinted at his own handwriting to make sure he was reading the numerals correctly.

"Suppose it couldn't be anything else," he muttered. He then began to wonder if there was ever a point in life when one just became too old to improve their handwriting and if that point was anywhere around nineteen. He made a mental note to google "handwriting + improvement + age" later on.

The elevator dinged in greeting and the lobby light illuminated above the withdrawing doors. Dan took note of how white it was. This was one of the things he had noticed about New York that he was not sure many other people would have taken the time to consider—the peculiar whiteness of white in New York City's light bulbs. In England, London really, bulbs were frosted white but always seemed to glow yellow when activated. Dan felt very observant and on par with his surroundings for a pleasant moment until he was jostled from behind by a patron getting in the lift. He then felt overly observant, aware there was a reason why no one ever talked about most of the particulars his mind enjoyed tonguing. So he got in the lift as well and stood away from the other man, who was wearing a blue suit underneath a large, black trench coat and a Bluetooth earpiece.

"Eight?" Dan asked as he watched the man push the circular six button, eliciting a highly enjoyable click from the plastic as the light inside of it flickered red. Dan immediately decided that, even if he had been going to floor six also, he would have requested a different number if only to be satiated by that delicious noise once more. The other man put pressure on the eight button and Dan wanted to kiss the fat little fingers that helped create this moment of aurgasm. He held the sound in his ears like cool water beneath his tongue, but it soon began to evaporate and his thoughts wandered back to previously visited watering holes.

He was going to ask someone out in less than five minutes and even though he was fairly sure this person would say yes he was riddled with anxiety. He recognized that his nervousness was only human nature, that until he heard something positive extract itself from between the lips he wanted so badly to taste, to put in his pocket and snack on in private, in public, in anywhere, he was allowed his uncertainty. Unfortunately for Daniel Radcliffe, nervousness always led to introspection and that rarely ended well.

Tens of millions of pounds in the bank did not change the fact that he felt like a child, and a fidgety, unfortunate-looking one at that. The genetic shortness did not entirely help. The forever pale skin and thin lips, too bright for an otherwise lackluster face, did him no favors. His hair was okay, he liked that fine enough. Most of the time it did what he wanted and looked pretty nice and he had been told that it always smelled good, even after two-and-a-half hours of performing. He went back and forth on his eyes. Sometimes, especially when hungover and feeling particularly self-conscious and aware of how different everyone else seemed to look from him, he found his eyes too gruesome to contemplate. Even still, he was aware of the general public's attraction to blue eyes and he knew how to manipulate his gaze into something resembling sexy, or melancholic, or both depending on what was required from him and what he required from others. And he really was quite fond of the shape of his body, the way his muscles made his skin bulge and stretch over joints and bones. He enjoyed being fit enough that people did not seem compelled to suicide after seeing him naked. It's really not an entirely undesirable package, Dan thought. Improvements could be made, of course, but that's life. As the doors closed behind the businessman and the lift ascended its final two flights, Dan was almost feeling good about himself.

"I can probably do this," he said aloud.

The lift stopped. The eight button flickered off. Dan inhaled deeply and then exited into the hallway, pressing multiple buttons on the way. Those buttons! Inanimate objects should not be capable of sex moans. Fuck, he thought. What a time to be horny.

Dan turned around to check the gilded placard for which direction he should head. Rooms eight-hundred to eight-hundred and twenty were to his left. Bollocks. That did not allow for the amount of hallway walk time he had planned on for last minute preparation. Ah, well.

Dan began walking. He alternated looking at his shoes, very old black Chucks, and glancing at the numbers on the doors. As he took each step, he let himself explore the desire nipping at his insides. Today could be huge, he realized. In the next twenty-four hours he could be beginning a misery parade of red wine and cigarettes and not getting out of bed except to vomit and/or restart the playlist (titled, "fuck you; you are very shitty") he had already made and left open on his computer, just in case, or he could be in another bed entirely.

He wanted to date this guy a lot, for so many reasons. Most of them were very run of the mill, nothing no one hasn't heard before. As Dan passed room eight-hundred and eighteen he understood that at that moment the main reason he wanted this bloke to say, "Why yes, I _do_ think that spending a lot of time with you would be extremely enjoyable and, don't you know, I had been feeling exactly the same about you all this time. How about that?" was because he wanted the follow-up question, "Would you like to come in and suck my cock?" to which Dan would pretend to be demure and maybe a little shocked, even as a wicked grin fidgeted at the corners of his mouth. He would then reply, looking up through his eyelashes, "I would love to."

Yeah, that would be pretty fucking sexy, he thought. So he decided to continue. He had never seen this guy's cock, even though he had seen Dan's. That was unfair as hundreds of people had seen Dan's penis and he had never seen but one or two of theirs, and one of those reciprocal viewings was from the time he had forgotten, in his excitement over finding the perfect delivery of a particularly tricky line, to knock on Lorenzo Pisoni's dressing room door and had walked in on the mind numbingly gorgeous Italian toweling himself off. The other was a huge mistake, a theatre student who happened to be at the same pub hours after one of the West End matinees and who fed Dan free top shelf tequila shots until his throat was loose enough to take the admittedly gorgeous boy's prick in the men's. He'd had to pay the student a few hundred quid plus free show tickets to get him to promise to keep mum. After hailing a cab home, he had stayed in bed shaking and dry heaving for the remainder of the night and sent a friend out to buy and scour one of every tabloid for the following week.

That fucking blew, by the way. What the hell kind of person blatantly uses another guy like that? Dan really was curious. He would have gotten over the media mindfuck that would have happened should the story have leaked. Hell, he may even have been able to deny it. His publicist was really quite good and no one would be expected to believe a story about Daniel Radcliffe, mister Harry James Potter in the prick-hardening flesh, deep throating a curly-haired blond and then, upon request, spitting the man's come into his own mouth and kissing all over his face as he swallowed himself to be anywhere near true. What was really the nails on Dan's chalkboard was that he was pretty sure the student had blackmailed him, had known exactly how Dan would react to his threats and probably used the money to buy drinks for another pathetic closeted queen in some other pathetic dingy sports pub full of closeted queens until he had made the fortune he would never amass through his useless pursuit of acting. Dan would make sure that this student never made it as an actor, not even in the pantomimes. This was perhaps viciously petty, but any acting bloke worth his spit knows that connections, even ones formed through sexual go arounds every now and again, are loads more important than money. What a fucking idiot.

Dan hated to think of himself as foolish, especially considering some of the fools he knew, but more than anything else he hated how the memory of that night still elicited some of the most potent masturbatory sessions of the past year. He had never before considered himself a glutton for torture, but perhaps that opinion needed reevaluating. Either that or he needed a more exciting sex life.

As he passed room eight-hundred and fourteen he began to scratch at the crooks in his arms, a nervous habit that often left strangers across crowded rooms wondering if one of England's bloomingest young roses was hiding an addiction to heroin (never, but he still felt in the midst of that teenage ambition for trying everything once) or possibly a cocaine habit (no, only once, and he hadn't enjoyed it, had felt painfully insane with energy). He was still thinking about sucking cock and his decidedly Freudian oral fixation was flipping arse over teakettle. He was actually chewing on the inside of his own mouth, so great was his desire at this point. He desperately needed a fag or a pen or some gum or something, anything to fill up the empty spaces in his mouth. He looked down at his nails and cuticles, all thoroughly ravaged multiple times over. He pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket and removed two dollars. Back by the lift was an anteroom with a vending machine and Dan felt he would kill if it meant an ice cold Diet Coke flooding his system.

One dollar, two, and then the plastic bottle crashed into the opening at the bottom of the vending machine. His change clamored into the return like metal puppies in a plastic box, but Dan left it. He'd seen enough homeless people desperately fingering vending machines and payphones to be concerned over a couple of quarters that would just sit in his pocket and annoy him until he was able to rid himself of their presence. What a luxury, he thought, to buy things not wanted just to rid oneself of change. People often gave him strange looks when he began blathering on about fiscal responsibility and living within one's means, as though the fact that he was not and had never been poor rendered him mentally incapable of imagining what it would be like to struggle. It was not difficult to do—Dan simply took what he had and imagined the opposite. He was sure poverty was more complicated than all that, but he tended to have an overly simplistic way of thinking about the more important of his life's subjects: acting was memorizing with feeling, celebrity was ninety percent appreciation and ten percent avoidance, talent was the ability to work hard and not complain about it and poverty was the opposite of having. Dan was thinking this as a door opened further down the hallway. The idea that it might be room 804 made him jump and he sloshed his Diet Coke onto his white England cricket polo.

"Bollocks," he groaned, wiping at the stain with the sleeve of his black leather jacket. He looked up and down the hallway for a loo, eyebrows raised in semi-desperation. If he had to go back down to the lobby, he did not trust himself not to walk right back to his flat and pretend as though none of this had ever happened. It would be so easy to phone and say that he was terribly sorry for never showing up, but he'd had a bad Chinese and was violently ill. He would remark on how unfortunate it was that this was his friend's last day in town, that they would not see each other for at least a month without one making a special effort to visit the other. It would be so easy, but Dan would never be able to forgive himself for coming this far and then giving up. He could be called many less than exemplary things, but he was not a quitter. If he took on a project he took on every part of it, even the hard and uncomfortable bits. It was settled, then. He would do it. He would just walk right to that door and do it.

Caught up in the rush of adrenaline, testosterone and bravado, Dan decided to forego the loo and zipped up his jacket. If this bloke agreed to going on a date, he would do so. Whether or not there was a Diet Coke stain on his shirt would not play an important factor in the decision making process, Dan was pretty confident. They were both men, here, he thought. Men are supposed to be messy, even the ones who like cock in their mouths and a prick up the arse.

Was that sexist? he wondered. Before he could blaze that particular sociological trail, he forced himself to refocus. He imagined his brain as a chalkboard, a giant eraser causing every trace of thought to disappear. This was how he had always cleared his mind. The inherent dirtiness of a used chalkboard, the way it could never be fully clean after being used once, appealed to him greatly. His yoga hippie vegan friends would be appalled, but then again they were offended that one time he invited them out to dinner and graciously passed over the award-winning steak to order cheese pasta. He had gone to great lengths not to wear his leather jacket or shoes and to make sure he had picked a restaurant with vegetables and organic options on the menu, but apparently eating cheese means you support the rape of baby cows. Hadn't you heard? No, Dan supposed he hadn't. Some people are never satisfied.

Wait. Where was he? Right, the asking out. Dan imagined his chalkboard once more and took a pull off of his Diet Coke. It was not as refreshing as it would have been had he drank it immediately instead of spilling all over himself, but the swarming carbonation filled his mouth in exactly the way he was expecting it to. He twisted the cap back on and inhaled with purpose. It was time.

As he walked, quicker this time around, by the doors he had passed a minute ago, flashes of all the possible futures barraged his mental field. One of the side-effects of being deeply involved in the film industry for half of his life was that he could not think his thoughts without special effects. He imagined in jump cuts. There were extreme close ups, medium, and long shots. People were given reaction shots and flashbacks. Today, with each door he did not knock on, a scenario came to him:

810: No one was there. He would knock multiple times, drink a little more of his soda as it started to warm against his clammy palms. After fifteen minutes, way too long to wait with any sense of dignity, he would go home. He would not think to call and see if they could meet up somewhere else.

808: He was there. He answered the door. Someone called from out of sight, "Who is it?" Dan would feel so fucking foolish. He would stumble over his words, sharp intakes of breath confused with broken syllables, his hands and tongue fighting for excuses. That would probably be it. They could not be friends anymore, not after that debacle.

806: He was there. He answered the door. He was alone. Dan smiled, said, "Hello." He was invited in, they had a lovely chat about New York, maybe they shared some loony homeless people stories or compared beautiful people sightings. The natural way that conversations get awkward would be fast approaching and Dan, fully in tune with awkward happenings, would race to beat it. Too fast he would ask, "Would you like to get dinner?" Yes, that would be great. They were both starving, that much they could agree on. Dan would realize that he had not planned on how exactly to make it apparent that this was a date with dinner and not a dinner date. Huh. He would briefly consider letting the evening play out without suggesting a tone or level of intimacy, but the thought of hours of suspense at best would be too much to bear. "Would you like to get dinner, like a date thingy? With me?" Dan would blurt out. There would be silence, punctuated with "Oh!"s and Dan's mental "fuck fuck fuck"s that would be so loud in his head that there could be no way everyone in the hotel could not hear them and would not be screaming at him to shut the hell up, already. A lot of blushing would probably be happening, but a conclusion would eventually be reached.

The wall space between 806 and 804: Yes. "Oh! Oh good. That's... really, really great." Dan would deflate with relief. They would chuckle over the strangeness of the situation and stand up, stretching their limbs to try and gain a foothold on their surroundings, the same but suddenly so new.

The card reader for room 804: Oh wow, Dan. I'm sorry, but—"No, I'm sorry. Nevermind. It was a stupid question."

804: He would be there. He would answer the door and he would be alone. Dan would smile, say, "Hello." He would smile back and jesus was that the world's most gorgeous smile or not? He would be invited in and would immediately check out the room's view. It would be a great one, of course, all Central Park and high society. They would have the requisite New York small talk: traffic, crazies, girls. His room would be ungodly warm and Dan would feel himself on the cusp of sweating. Figuring it not the best to be sweating profusely whilst asking someone out, he would unzip and remove his jacket. They would continue talking, moving away from locational small talk and into the connective interest-based communication. Dan would see a book on the nightstand and ask about the author, had he read the author's plays or short stories, which are so blatantly better than her pitiful attempts at novel writing it's embarrassing. They would discuss how is it possible for people do to something so great while failing epically in similar mediums. Jokes would be made at Dan's expense. You could win a Tony, this. "He was their friend!!", that.

It would take a few minutes for the boys to realize they were sitting rather close on the room's sole King bed. His friend would grow silent and cast his eyes downward. Dan could imagine the way those eyelashes would feel against his skin as lips traversed his body. He could imagine how different they would feel on his face, his chest, below his bellybutton, the insides of his thighs. A slightly exasperated, "Well?" would arouse him from his fantasy.

"Er?" Dan would offer. His friend would snort, rolling his eyes.

"What's that on your shirt?"

"Oh, yeah." Dan, holding up his Diet Coke and placing it on the nightstand.

"Ah," the other boy, giving a look like, "Of course you would."

"Actually, do you have a Tide pen or... ?" Dan would ask, struck by a moment of genius. He wouldn't care about the stain, about going out in public looking a bit dirty, but he had an idea.

"I think so, let me see." His friend would rummage around in his luggage, finally pulling out the orange highlighter-looking laundry thing. "Here." Another one of those brilliant smiles.

"Cheers." Dan would stand in front of the mirror and pretend to try and hold his shirt away from his chest and use the pen at the same time, pulling off the cap and holding it in his mouth like a fag. Exasperated, he would throw an apologetic look at his friend and say, "I think it'll be easier if I take my shirt off."

The trick to this, the secret Dan knew thanks to too many drinks after a chat show they'd both been on, was that his friend had a thing, a fetish if you will, for shirtlessness. It was weird and honestly made Dan laugh to think about, but any pier in a storm, right? So Dan would put the cap back on the Tide pen and place it in his trouser pocket. He'd cross his arms over his stomach and grip the hem of his shirt. He'd think about how Alan does it, on stage, and he'd try and replicate the sense of expectation, leaving behind the Strang-brand nervousness.

"Ah, fuck," he would hear through the fabric over his ears and then, before he could even get the shirt off of his arms he would be pressed against the wall and he would be getting kissed and it would be really fucking gorgeous. Their lips would open for each other, hot and wet and little bit chapped from the winter weather. There would be tongue. And then, because this was just all in Dan's head anyway and why the hell not, hands would not wait to wander. "You know what this does to me," his friend would scold through a smile pressed against an unshaven jawline.

"I have no idea what you're on about," Dan would be coy.

"Yes you fucking do, you dirty limey." Two hands, appropriately large for a man of his stature, pressing in Dan's skin starting from his hips, up his sides and onto his chest, resting on top of his shoulders. Maybe subliminally, they would press down a little. Dan could be easy when he wanted to be, but it would take more than some kissing and cursing to get him on his knees. Down on this hotel carpet, back pressed sweaty against the wall as cock was half-taken, half-forced into his mouth was an ideal scenario, but he would have been embarrassed had he shown so little restraint.

"What?" Dan would ask, not really sure why but just wanting to say something. He'd smile and bite at his bottom lip, tipping his chin up. He would let his eyelids close and then refuse to open them fully. Dan could imagine the other boy wanting this, wanting him, for a long time just as he had been doing in vice versa. He could imagine the taller man removing his own shirt and pressing his body against Dan's, unsure of where to start. Dan knew of a thousand different ways this could go. He hoped the other man would be equally as overwhelmed, not sure which fantasy he should like to be realized the most. Maybe kissing would help.

So they would kiss. They would kiss each other with tongue and without. They would work through moans and around swallows. Jaws and ears and necks and dips in clavicles would all be considered fair game. Not much would be out of the question and they would both be so _good_. How could two people who had never done this to each other know the exact right thing to do to make the blood flow so efficiently faster? Dan would not consider the implications that this type of thing had been done many times before by both of them. When Dan let his thoughts get like this he felt very much sympathetic toward the late David Foster Wallace, who would often become lost in the background details of his own sexual fantasies and could never get to the actual sex for the particulars of who, what, when, where, and why.

Around this time the kissing might start to not be enough and Dan would arch his back away from the wall, one hand in messy hair and the other on a waist thicker than his own.

"I didn't know you were..." the other guy would trail off. Dan would want to laugh because that'd just be ridiculous. "I had assumed, but, I mean, you are English." which would cause Dan to pull away and smirk incredulously, pretending to be offended with raised eyebrows and a tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

His friend would maybe blush and try to play it off like a joke. "Fuck, I don't know. I don't even care. Please suck my cock."

And that would cause Dan to laugh for real and make a tiny show of considering it, but ultimately he would press his head back against the wall and take one of his friend's fingers in his mouth, the whole finger, as he closed his eyes and mimicked what all a blowjob from one Daniel Radcliffe might feel like. The other man would swallow and release a sharp moan of approval. He would put his hands, one slightly wet from saliva and cool on Dan's skin as it dried, back on the shorter man's shoulders and would once again press down. This time, Dan would concede. Jeans and underwear would be unzipped and dropped and stepped out of and, just for good measure, Dan would undo his own trousers and pants and slip them as gracefully as possible underneath his knees and shake them off of his feet, the Tide pen slipping out of his pocket and rolling underneath the bed.

Out of what could have been instinct, as Dan's head was turned to the side to both reach for the pen to place it somewhere where it would not be forgotten, and also to help him focus on removing his own clothing without falling over, his right hand would reach up and grab the other man's erection. As Dan's hand made its first cycle up and down the shaft his face would moon, eyes wide with slick lips parted in the middle, and regardless of anything that could have possibly happened at that moment—aliens, ninjas, dinosaurs, zombies, Perez Hilton—his attention would have remained undivided on the prick he was holding. As much as it would pain him to think that he had thought this thought at a later date, Dan predicted it would be perfect. The exact right width, length, angle of curvature, degree of veininess, everything. If he could have taken it down to Madison Square Gardens and entered it into the Westminster Dog Show and ran it around the ring he would have bet every single possession he had that it would win Best of Show. Even the dogs would weep in shame and tear savagely at their own hides for how poorly they stood up to this penis. They would have to cancel the show because nothing would ever top that, no anything could ever be better than the dick in his hand.

Dan would be thinking this, would imagine himself just about to step up to the plate and not make an arse out of himself at sucking some perfect cock. His mouth would be open and, fucking hell, he could already taste it. As Dan's right hand would settle firmly against the bottom of the shaft and Dan's left hand would be grabbing tightly the wrist trying to force him forward, as the smoothness of that head would be felt and the pinkness of it would help Dan finally understand why the gay community chose pink as their mascot color, there would be a knock on the door.

Dan was knocking on the door of room 804. He realized what he had done too late to change it but pulled his own hand back anyway, hoping against hope that he had imagined that too. It was highly unlikely. He'd had some off daydreams before, but never had he imagined an alternate dimension version of himself interrupting a very naked and aroused self giving what was promising to be the world's best blowjob. The door opened and Dan wanted to go fuck his life. Despite his somewhat lame efforts he had not focused and look where it had landed him this time: standing in front of this demi-god in plaid with a barely hidden erection in his trousers, a stain on his shirt, and his hand stupidly floating in the air like some creepy flesh balloon.

Yeah, this was going to be awkward.


End file.
